Chance Encounters
by Cal reflector
Summary: On Christmas Eve, Jean Havoc finds himself alone with his thoughts in the most unlikely place, where he encounters the most unlikely person. HavocHawkeye


Author's Notes and disclaimer: I find that its only appropriate to make my first Full Metal Alchemist, written near the new years,one about my new favorite pairing in the fandom: Jean Havoc and Riza Hawkeye. Depending on the story's reception, this may become a series of Havoc-centric oneshots. 

This story is dedicated to Aoife-Hime, and Full Metal Alchemist does not belong to me.

**Title: Chance Encounters**

Pushing open the heavy wooden doors that are said to have withstood a nation's turbulent history for over one hundred years, lieutenant Jean Havoc stepped into the Amestris' National Cathedral, a towering monument of granite and stone erected by pure engineering and labor without intervention by alchemists--a magnificent testament to the prowess of man when motivated adequately, in this case, faith and patriotism.

None of which mattered to the young soldier, much, as he brushed off bits of snow from his hair and blue cotton uniform. The interior of the cathedral was warm but dimly lit, the numerous candle stands located around the elevated altar to the front while some dampened daylight fell from the skylights and stained glass windows arranged high along the walls. On this gray December afternoon, even the brilliant colors of the stained glass and mosaic art work appeared filmed in shadow. In a far corner, a priest robbed in uniform brown shuffled quietly to his duties elsewhere, soft footsteps soon falling out of Havoc's earshot; the young soldier was subtly aware of his solitary presence in the vast enclosed space, and proceeded to walk down the central aisle before sliding into one of the oak pews and laying his back in silent contemplation of the ornate dome overhead, depicting a host of angels in Heaven.

Jean Havoc was by no means a man of faith; while it was true that pure atheists were rare on the battlefield, understandably, since men brushed by death on a daily basis, he did not believe in the divine's power to deliver and protect. He trusted his training, his aim, and his luck to get him through, and after nearly five years in the service, they had not failed him, even if there were several close calls.

He had seen firsthand the effects of religion: Some of Amestris' toughest enemies had been zealots of rebellious sects whose fearlessness spurred them to such ferocity that even the hardiest veterans had been taken aback. More recently, a city in the East was plunged into civil war in the aftermath of a corrupt priest's plot to rebel against the state employing his blind converts as an army, with promises of life after death in Heaven. It was these experiences of dealing with religion which made him, if not despise, distrust the subject in general.

But he had also seen the powers of faith demonstrated in other ways: Sometimes, in the heat of battle, he would stare incredulously from the relative safety of his foxhole as a chaplain exposed himself to flying bullets and shrapnel to make his way to a fallen soldier to deliver the last rites. Usually he'd consider men stupid, crazy, or both for entering a battlefield unarmed (even the medics packed pistols, as the enemy was not likened to observe the laws of war in those terrible times), but after witnessing several such incidents and meeting a few of these chaplains himself, he could not bring himself to categorize them as any of those. When he saw one of these men, bent over and whispering the sacraments to a mortally wounded soldier, he marveled at how more often than not the nearly departed took on expressions of peace, seemingly freed from the pain of their wounds and the burden of this ugly world.

These chaplains, their beliefs and their works, belied everything he relied upon to function and survive in the battlefield. It would have been fine if they had merely been men of extraordinary courage, but such was not the case; medics saved lives, and so did they, but in a different way, and though he still did not believe in the divine, after years of killing and nearly being killed, he knew that he carried wounds inside which no medicine or surgeon could heal. They came in the form of faces; faces of men, women and children accidentally killed, faces of fallen comrades and the families of those comrades, faces of Gracia and Alicia Hughes…

Gripped by a sudden anxiety, he found himself reacting reflexively by reaching into his breast pocket, drawing out a pack and shaking out a cigarette and rapidly sticking it between his lips. As he searched for his Zippo lighter, a familiar voice nearby took him by surprise.

"There's no smoking in the cathedral, lieutenant Havoc."

He turned to see the figure of Riza Hawkeye, and stood quickly before she motioned for him to be at ease. "It's alright, we're not on duty."

Even if he stood nearly eight inches taller than her, the commanding presence of the first lieutenant was one which Havoc had learned to respect, to be neglected at his own peril. Today however, the usual edge and sternness seemed amiss from Hawkeye's features; an unexpected, but not unwelcome change to the second lieutenant, who felt that she appeared less harsh and more feminine this way as he replaced the unlit tobacco within his pockets. Gesturing to the space besides him, she asked, "Is this seat taken?"

He shook his head. She lowered herself besides him, and for a while, the two officers sat side by side, in a silence that no longer seemed as oppressive as moments before. A few minutes later, Havoc ventured a glance at his companion, and saw that her eyes were directed towards the mural above the altar, seemingly lost in her own set of memories, but not stressful ones like his own. "I didn't know you were a churchgoer, lieutenant."

"I'm not. My mother used to take me and my sister to services on Sundays." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before turning to Havoc. "And you?"

He chuckled, swinging his arms behind the bench to both sides as he leaned back. "Hardly, dad was never sober enough to take us." Havoc spoke candidly; he knew that Hawkeye read his dossier before, since Mustang carefully screened all of his prospective subordinates.

Hawkeye nodded, understanding, and he silently thanked her for not inquiring further. Not wishing to ruin the companionable silence they had by dwelling on his unhappy past, he directed the conversation towards her. "So, finished at the office already?"

Riza sighed, smiling tiredly. "You know how it is. What with Christmas tomorrow, there was no way that man was going to get any work done. So instead of jeopardizing the holiday cheer and general morale by forcing him, I convinced him to give everyone the rest of the day off; he's probably at a date with his latest pickup now."

Havoc's fingers twitched at the thought of colonel Mustang putting the moves on some curvaceous (which is how he liked them) brunette over a candlelight dinner with velvet tablecloth while he had nothing to look forward to except a lonely night at an obscure bar, perhaps with Farman and the others who belonged in that pitiful category known as "Single and looking." Something wasn't quite right though… "Lieutenant, what are you doing here?"

Hawkeye looked puzzled for a moment. "What do you mean? I'm getting some peace of mind after a long day."

The young man mentally slapped himself. "No, I mean... it's Christmas Eve, don't you have plans?"

She shook her head. "No, not really."

Havoc didn't know what to say to that; he'd imagined that, beautiful and distinguished as she was, Hawkeye would have men lined up out of Central waiting to ask her out. Apparently, she read the confused look on his face correctly, for a corner of her brow raised slightly in amusement. "Is it really that surprising, that I'd be alone for Christmas?" Havoc hesitated for a moment before nodding slowly, which brought a small smile to the first lieutenant's lips. "Thanks... but in case you didn't know, there's a reason why I'm commonly referred to as the Ice Queen."

He knew. He also knew that those who spoke of her thus were either intimidated, ignorant, or jealous of her. He blew air out of his nose derisively. "They're just talking out of their asses because they don't know you."

When she did not respond, the young man wandered whether he might have been too presumptuous; turning, he saw that Hawkeye's expression had softened, and was now looking at him with a face full of... gratitude? He felt his own start to color, and turned away to clear his throat; like all the other men on Mustang's staff, he was used to his insides turning to jelly under the first lieutenant's sharp gaze, and though he was unsure what emotion he was undergoing now, it was definitely not the usual fear-for-your-life, but a trepidation of an entirely other kind.

"So... why are you here by yourself on Christmas Eve?" Once more, it was Hawkeye's voice which brought him back to attention.

He sighed heavily. "Well, the truth was, I was in no hurry to join Breda and Farman at the loser's club, where those of us without dates or girlfriends gather at this time of the year to curse Musta... I mean, cry on each others' shoulders." He rubbed the back of his head and heaved another heavy sigh. "This year is just us three, since Fury seems to have landed himself a date with that girl who works at the library. Glasses must attract or something..."

Hawkeye's chuckle didn't bother him; in fact, he was glad that his plight was at least good for cheering her up, and smiled wryly. Tilting her head to get a better view of him, she continued her inquiry. "And? So you came to the national cathedral to pray for a date?"

He laughed heartily, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling above. "Couldn't hurt to try, right? No, seriously, I'm not a believer or anything but lately..." His mind wandered back to the subject on which it had been dwelling before Hawkeye came in, and his expression dimmed. "... I've just been wondering whether I've missed out on something."

Hawkeye gathered her hands in her lap, her eyes impassive as she studied her co-worker and subordinate carefully, finally speaking in a measured tone. "Pang of conscience?"

"Not exactly, I'm not sure... I'm not sure what it is. I don't feel guilt from doing my job, and that sometimes mistakes are made, because for the most part, I've done everything I can do avoid them..." He lifted his head and looked at the large crucifix, the gentle glow from the hundreds of candles below reflecting off his blue irises as he rested his chin in his clasped hands. _Why did I come here?_ "We kill them, they kill us, sometimes we kill ourselves... but the end is all the same, every dies and turns to nothing."

He felt something touch him, and saw that Hawkeye had laid a hand upon his right shoulder; he went on. "I don't believe it, but sometimes... I wish that it was true, because then General Hughes would have gone some place better. And if it were true, then some day he'll get to see Alicia and Gracia again..."

Hawkeye put her arm around her compatriot's broad shoulders; in a way, she understood what he was undergoing, having seen it in her boss after Hughes passed away. Alchemists are scientists and did not believe in the supernatural, but it is a sad thing when they realize that not even they can bring the dead back, and have no other source of hope or comfort to turn to. She knew that if converting to a particular religion would give him the chance to see Hughes in heaven someday, Mustang would've been the first to sign up, but it was not so simple.

She looked closely at him, his ruffled blonde strands hanging down and obscuring his surprisingly smooth features. He was two years her junior from the academy, not top of her class like she was, but good enough for a meager scholarship to help him through school and was personable and well-liked with a winsome smile. Four years later here they were, her one rank above him, both of them changed after what they had gone through. She had found a man to devote her loyalty to, and he had... nothing.

She liked Jean. Not only was he a excellent soldier, but he often held the men together with his self-depreciating humor when Hawkeye was too busy babysitting Mustang. He was aloof sometimes, even goofy, and appeared to be the antithesis to her own approach to their line of work—always vigilante, all the time. But over time, as she got to work with him more, she understood that he had the ability to turn his game face on and off and take things seriously when the situation merited, so that now, he was but one of a handful of men she'd trust to watch her back, and her first pick for a partner in any dangerous mission.

She leaned closer and squeezed his slumped shoulders gently as she spoke quietly. "I know. I wish it were true as well." She felt him relax a bit then and nod slowly in reply, and she continued to sit with him as outside, daylight gradually faded into the night before Christmas.

----

Ten minutes later, the two officers stood atop of the broad flight of stairs in front of the cathedral as snow continued to drift from the night skies and their breaths became visible in near zero temperatures. As Hawkeye folded up the collar of her uniform overcoat, she contemplated her unusual behavior that day: The sentimentality, the hug she gave, it was all very unlike her usual self, who was more accustomed to guns and threats rather than touch and encouragement when trying to produce the desired effects on subjects, usually her colonel. She wondered why she felt inclined to treat Jean more gently, when on any normal working day she'd send him scampering to his duties with a frosty look like everyone else.

_Must've been the atmosphere,_ she thought to herself as she glanced over towards the tall young man, who was donning his officer's cap, pushing aside some of his spiky bangs in the process, and then she remembered that she had one more question.

"Jean, if what the chaplains' teach is the truth... what would you do?" She had not wanted to ask in case it affected his mood further, but he seemed sufficiently recovered by now from his solemnity earlier on.

Havoc plucked the unlit cigarette from his lips, his eyes rolling upwards in consideration. "If that were the case, I'd buy them drinks… and ask them to put in a good word with the Almighty for me."

Her eyes widened, then a grin appeared on her face as she punched him in the shoulder; harder than she intended, if Havoc's pained expression was any indication. "Disrespecting God's representatives like that will most likely be frowned upon, lieutenant Havoc."

Havoc returned the grin. "Disrespect? Heaven forbid!" Hawkeye had to suppress a groan at the terrible attempt at humor, and she realized that it was probably what he intended from the start; to loosen her up. _Definitely the holiday atmosphere._ Before she could come up with an appropriate reprimand to maintain her composure, Havoc continued. "Anyways, it was really nice of you to hear me out like that, lieutenant, I appreciate it a lot, and I was wondering... if you don't have other plans, would you like to join me and the other guys for dinner tonight?"

Hawkeye realized she must've appeared surprised, because a look of slight panic came onto Havoc's face as he continued quickly. "I mean, I totally understand if you don't feel like it or anything... but umm... the tavern we go to? We know the proprietor, and he serves a great bratwurst and cabbage and potato and the greatest keg lager in Central..." Flustered, Havoc lowered his head, and she saw that a trace of red had begun to surface on the second lieutenant's face beneath the cap visor. "We... Id just be really glad—honored!—If you'd join us."

And in that moment, as he nervously scratched the clean-shaven side of his jaw, an unlit cigarette drooping precariously from his lips, smile slightly crooked from nervousness, Hawkeye understood why she had unwittingly gone out of her way for him this afternoon; this talented soldier, this awkward man who was as good at his job as he was bad at keeping a girlfriend, this good officer who fought through the horrors of war but managed to keep his integrity intact, unwilling to risk his men or innocents or do anything to compromise his beliefs, this hardworking leader who was never promoted—a second lieutenant still after four years of distinguished service—because he couldn't bring himself to cater to his superior's ambitions by going against his conscience, this shy man whose bad luck and hard life gave him more right than anyone else to be bitter and complain, but chose not to do so.

Unlike Roy Mustang, Jean Havoc was ordinary; he would not amount to any sort of renown or greatness, too naïve and selfless to aim for a higher office when it meant using others as stepping stones. He did not seek power for the sake of a higher calling, or have the capacity to lead and right the wrongs of a nation embroiled in decades of conflict, for such ambition required hardness and a degree of unfeeling, and she knew that underneath the muscles, underneath the battle scar and the misleading name, Jean Havoc was a softie.

He and Mustang were different, but they were both special: Mustang had her absolute faith, and she had thrown in her lot with him when he embarked on his perilous quest to become Furher because he was the rare sort of man who could command and deserved her unquestioned trust and loyalty.

Jean was the rare sort of man who, in her most private moments of personal musings, she thought she might trust her heart with.

"I'd be glad to accept."

The cigarette fell from Havoc's lips. "Eh?"

"I said: I'd like to join youmen for dinner tonight." Crossing her arms, she affected an annoyed look even though she felt light at heart. "And if it wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd like to get going before we both catch pneumonia standing out here, lieutenant."

"Ye… yes ma'am!" Snapped to a start by the tone of annoyance in his superior's voice, he quickly began marching down the steps and led her towards their destination, though unable to suppress the grin that formed at the corner of his mouth which spoke of his elation, which Hawkeye did not fail to notice.

Half a block later, the younger man, who was feeling extraordinarily lucky that day, decided to chance the boundaries of his good fortune one last time, knowing full well that the gamble could cost him anywhere from a death-giving glare to a bullet in the knee; rounding a corner, he paused in his steps and as Hawkeye looked on curiously, offered his arm to her in a crook, mustering the most gentlemanly, mature expression that his racing pulse would permit. "Ma'am?"

Hawkeye considered the idea; by doing so, they'd probably risk breaking several military protocols, including no fraternizing within the force (although, admittedly, that was one rule which her own superior broke all the time), not to mention that he was her subordinate, and younger as well. But when she saw how hard he fought to keep a straight face, the slight redness and earnestness of his expression... she melted a little. She slipped her arm around his, and they continued on their way, drawing the lingering gazes of a few bystanders who she pointedly ignored, for her mind was solely focused on his firm presence, the pressure of his muscled arm through the thick coat, and the look of boyish happiness on his face which she discovered to be infectious as she chided him, even as she drew him a little closer. "Don't press your luck too far, lieutenant Havoc."

But her words fell on deaf years, for Jean Havoc's mind had already gone on to dream of mistletoe at the doorway of the tavern.

Fin.


End file.
